An Honor
by TheGiantSquid
Summary: I was sixteen when I figured out I was in love with Hermione Granger. Sure, it must have been pretty obvious—well, obvious to everyone except Hermione and me. Especially me. I was a prat and I’ll be the first to admit it [R.Hr]


**Disclaimer:** Not mine, don't sue

**A/N:** An entry for the Ron/Hermione Quote!Fic Challenge at Checkmated. Many thanks to **Mizaya** for beta'ing this puppy on incredibly short notice! Reviews, questions, and comments are always welcome and appreciated. Enjoy!

Prompt: **"_We always deceive ourselves twice about the people we love—first to their advantage, then to their disadvantage."_** --Albert Camus

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_**An Honor**_

_by TheGiantSquid_

I was sixteen when I figured out I was in love with Hermione Granger. Sure, it must have been pretty obvious—well, obvious to everyone except Hermione and me. Especially me. I was a prat and I'll be the first to admit it. But how was I supposed to know that what I was feeling at the Yule Ball was jealousy? Honestly, I didn't know! Seeing her dancing and laughing and _flirting_—ugh!—with Krum made me sick to my stomach, made my chest ache and my eyes narrow, but how was I supposed to know? I was a fourteen-year-old teenage boy. I was an idiot. Sometimes I feel like I still am.

Me and Hermione. We got in another fight yesterday. She wants blue and purple—no, no, no, wait. _Periwinkle_ and _lavender_ flowers for the reception. But me? I don't care. See, I know that this day is really important to her—I'm not a complete idiot. But I just don't care what colors the ruddy flowers are, or what music's going to be playing, or how big the dance floor is. All I care about is marrying the only woman I've ever loved.

Well, _apparently,_ this just isn't good enough. _Apparently_, I need to be doing more. But what? I ask you! Every time I try to help out, she insists I'm interfering or just trying to make things more complicated! Bloody hell, that woman can drive me up the wall sometimes. She's amazing, don't get me wrong, but barmy. Completely, utterly barmy.

A real animal in bed, too, but—wait, wait, wait, that's getting off the subject, innit? What was I saying? Right, Hermione's mad, yeah? But she's beautiful, too, when she's angry. Her cheeks flush, her bushy hair practically stands on end, and when she puts her hands on her hips? I can't help but grin a little inside when I see her do that. It's hot. She's hot. And gorgeous. And she's about to become my wife.

That should scare me, I'm told. Bill freaked out before he married Fleur all those years ago, did you know? We couldn't find him for hours. Turned out he was hiding with the ghoul in the attic bemoaning the loss of his bachelor days. Even now, I have no idea what the hell Bill was complaining about. I mean…it's _Fleur Delacour_, the quarter-veela that could make me blush just by looking at me—uh, don't tell Hermione I said that. Anyway, I remember being really confused at the time, and even now, when Fred jokes about wedding-day jitters and Ginny keeps insisting that Hermione's going to realize who she's marrying and run off the first chance she gets, I'm not nervous.

Because I know, you see? Hermione loves me, and I love her, and we belong together. Don't ask what she sees in me, for I haven't a clue, but I consider myself the luckiest damn bloke on the planet because she loves me.

Having Hermione love you is a gift, you know? An honor.

Anyway, what was I saying? Right, Bill. Bill was a mess on his wedding day, which shocked the hell out of me because this was _Bill_, Head Boy, all 'round good guy, curse-breaker, blah blah blah, and he was terrified of getting married. And you know what he told me? I remember it clearly.

He was pacing back and forth like a caged animal in the attic, wringing his hands, his scars squirming on his face as he ranted about how he wasn't _good enough_ for a veela, wasn't _good enough_ for someone like Fleur, and I remember—Merlin, it hit me like a ton of bricks. That was exactly how I felt about me and Hermione. In all the time we were together, all the time we skirted around the issue of "us", I was quite convinced that I was no where near good enough for her. I mean, come on! She's _Hermione_. Prefect, top of our year, cleverest witch of our age, beautiful, stubborn as all hell, fiery, passionate, amazing. Perfect. And what could she ever see in poor, lazy, thick-headed Ron Weasley, sidekick extraordinaire? For a while there, I knew—or at least thought I did—that Hermione wasn't interested in me at all. It took a while. A long while, actually, with lots of rows and hurt feelings and the occasional snog before we finally worked it out, before we finally realized that this was it, we were meant to be together, and _nothing _was going to stop us, not Voldemort, not the bloody war, not Krum, _nothing_. We've been together ever since.

Six years. We made love for the first time a week after Harry defeated Voldemort. We were together before that for over a year. We waited a year for each other. It was explosive to say the least. Amazing. Bloody hell…I'll never forget that night. Ever. For five years we dated steadily, fighting, bickering, loving, holding, comforting, always together for one another, rarely apart, staying with one another through every kind of disaster and death and horrible situation that plagued us over the years. And we became closer than ever.

We moved in together about a year and a half ago. I'm hoping one day when we're making enough money at the Ministry that we'll be able to afford a nice little cottage in the country, because I don't think it'll be healthy to raise our babies in a flat in London, but that's a discussion for another day. Right now, Hermione and I are happy and we're going to get married in…blimey, thirty minutes. Where the hell is my Best Man?

Harry made me propose to her, you know. I still chuckle about it to this day, the image of him forcibly pushing me out his door and magically sealing it behind me. I was white as a sheet and wanted to sick-up all over the front of my new dress robes. I'd been thinking about proposing not long after me and Hermione had moved in together and now I was finally going to do it. If I could ever make my feet move.

We had dinner at a nice restaurant in Diagon Alley, and I was going to ask her there, but then, in true Ron Weasley fashion, I chickened out at the last minute. We returned home and I could tell by Hermione's pursed lips and tense stance that my weird behavior was beginning to get to her, so without thinking whatsoever, I blurted out, "Willyoumarryme?"

She didn't even bat an eyelash. She said yes.

So this wedding's been a year in the making. Our union's been a lifetime in the making.

Bill stopped by earlier to wish me luck, a shit-eating grin on his scarred face. And again, I remembered something that Bill was spluttered all those years ago while he'd been freaking out in the attic. He said, "You know what, Ron? We blokes always deceive ourselves twice about the women we love. First, it's always to their advantage, because in our eyes, they're perfect and beautiful and can do no wrong. But in the end, it'll always be to their disadvantage, because by then we blokes realize that they've got faults and insecurities and blemishes too. And it works the same for girls, too, you know. But you know what? It never matters. Things always end up working out, funnily enough. So let's go do this thing, yeah?"

And just like that, Bill was back to being normal Bill again, and he strode confidently down the stairs and into the back garden and he married Fleur. Well, you were there. You remember. You cried. You'd cry for me and Hermione, too, I'm sure of it.

oOo

Ron Weasley was still for several moments before he stood, brushing grass and leaves from his trousers.

"I reckon that's all," he said, scratching the back of his neck. "I should be going; there's only a few minutes until the wedding begins and Harry's probably going spare looking for me."

He sighed and cleared his throat against the burning that was slowly building in his chest. "I wish you could be here, Mum," he whispered hoarsely. Bending low, Ron placed a kiss on the cool granite before rising and striding quickly towards the Burrow. His mother would never forgive him for being late to his own wedding, after all.

_Fin_


End file.
